It's not a date, it's a case?
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: Random high school AU. Enjoy the fluff and schmoop that probably would never happen. Sherlock says it's a date, but John knows it's a case. Then again, sometimes the blond does over-think things... Rated T as a precaution only.


I was actually writing this while I was supposed to be writing a Mystrade challenge. Oh well. I like this better.

Another high-school AU. Obviously.

* * *

It's been a few months since John first met Sherlock. John is (_by now_) used to the never-ending days of silence, the random explosions, the constant insults, the very near complete separation from other people, and yes, even the fact that they never have any food in the dorm and never stop at the cafeteria because - apparently - they don't need to eat.

So when Sherlock spontaneously pops his head over the edge of the top bunk to stare at the blond boy upside down and says, "John, we're going out tonight," John is a bit more than shocked.

"Excuse me?" John asks, cautious. He has no idea what his friend is planning, but he's learned it can never be _good_. "What do you mean '_going out'_?"

Sherlock manages to flip over the bar of his bed with ease and land on his feet instead of his head. John is suddenly reminded of a night not too long ago involving the taller boy landing flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him and scaring the piss out of the blond. Sherlock sighs.

"I mean we're going out. Get up and get dressed. Well, but sensible please."

John doesn't bother to argue, there's really no point. There's never a point with him.

He climbs out from under the covers and turns on the bedside lamp to find Sherlock fully dressed, wearing a white shirt and black suit jacket. Immaculate as always. He's just bending down to tie his laces as John shuffles to his dresser.

John strips right there, down to his grey boxers, and opens a drawer. He's really too tired to care, and it's not like Sherlock hasn't walked in on him in the bathroom before.

Hell, Sherlock has stolen the shower before.

* * *

It was a normal day. John had just gotten back from rugby practice and was looking forward to a cool shower to rinse off the dirt and sweat and the oppressive smell of other sweaty boys, most of which were seniors. He was alone in the dorm - Sherlock was away chasing some mystery, as he normally did - so he didn't bother locking the bathroom door.

Not five minutes after he had gotten the water perfect and was letting it run over his hair and face, the door slammed open and in rushed none other than Sherlock Holmes, all in a tizzy. A pale hand ripped open the curtain and John was caught standing there like a deer in the headlights.

Sherlock, never one to be put off by lack of personal space or privacy (well, that's not entirely true. He's never one to be put off by lack of personal space or privacy when _John_ is involved) simply closed the curtain and proceeded to strip, _then_ climb into the shower with his friend, mumbling something about having to get the blood and the stench of Anderson out of his hair.

John simply stood at the other side of the shower, not sure whether he should get out and accept what happened or throw out the intruder and not give a damn whether he cracked his head on the sink on the way out.

* * *

But, John had to give him credit, Sherlock was in and out, mouth running a mile a minute, and was gone before the blond could say "knock much?" Yet John hadn't locked the bathroom door since then. No point really, he knew if Sherlock wanted in, he was getting in. _Wherever that may be._

A smile quirks John's lips as he pulls on a pair of khaki slacks and a maroon jumper. He doesn't bother brushing his hair, simply smooths it down with his hand before he slips on his sneakers. Sherlock shakes his head, so he switches them for a brown pair of dress shoes. Sherlock nods and John does the laces.

"So, ah, where are we going?" John asks as he stands up. Dark eyes flick to the clock over the door. "It's nearly ten p.m."

He hears a 'tut' and feels a hand ushering him out the door.

"On a date, John. Honestly, do keep up."

* * *

"And you?"

John starts, feeling his heart stop somewhere around his throat, and looks up at their waitress. She's gazing at him expectantly, kind smile bright and friendly, but behind her eyes he can see a question.

'_How old_ are_ these kids?'_

(_It's one of the perks available from living with Sherlock Holmes and being allowed little to no prolonged contact with other human beings_.)

"Uh, yeah," he says, looking at the menu. "I'll just have coffee, please. Black. Thanks."

Sherlock shoots him an approving nod and smiles at the woman.

"That'll be all for now."

After she leaves, John focuses on this particular situation. He's gotten rather good at deducing (_'observing,' _he can hear Sherlock deadpan) lately, and he's positive this can't be what it obviously looks like. Two sixteen year old boys do _not_ simply go to a fancy restaurant at eleven o' clock at night, past curfew, and sit at a table for two with a _candle_ for God's sake, for no good reason. And with Sherlock there always is one. Well, normally.

He pulls a pen from his pocket (he's been keeping a pen and paper handy lately, he finds he often needs to take notes) and makes a list on his napkin.

-Fancy restaurant

-Candle

-Dressed up

-Late

-Alone with Sherlock

-Romantic atmosphere

John looks across the table briefly, brows raised, but his friend isn't looking at him. He's staring intently at something across the room, and the blond knows that look instantly.

-ON A CASE

_Obviously_.

He shakes his head briefly, looking over his shoulder as he does.

Of course this is a case. What did he think this was, a real _date_?

Sherlock Holmes doesn't date, hasn't dated, probably never will date. And even if he did, he _certainly_ wouldn't date his short, stocky, plain, blond, **male**, roommate.

The dark-haired boy very nearly jumps as John leans across the table.

"_This isn't a date, is it?_" he asks, cheeky grin becoming more pronounced with every passing moment.

His friend offers a tight smile. "…No."

John smiles further and gestures vaguely at the man Sherlock has been eye-balling since they arrived.

"He's the real reason we're here. This is a case."

Sherlock simply smirks, and a sense of triumph spreads through the blond. Finally. He got something right without Sherlock having to explain it to him like a clueless child.

When the waitress comes back, Sherlock asks for the bill. John simply sips his coffee, ignoring his smoldering tongue. He knew they wouldn't be eating anyway. The red-head looks (very) confused, but Sherlock's eyes are boring into her in exactly (_nearly_) the same way they do to John when they want something and no - or any other non-favorable response - is not an acceptable answer.

In the space of five minutes, Sherlock pays for their drinks, John chugs his coffee, scalding his tonsils as he does so, and they both gather their coats. It's mid-December and it's a damn-near blizzard outside. The suspect, whom John realizes is Jim Moriarty from _school _(a _professor_ no less), is just ahead of them.

The cold hits them like a brick wall and John finds himself shrinking inside his coat. In contrast, Sherlock is stalking beside him, chin up and spine straight, coat billowing around him. The blond feels his teeth chatter at the sight.

"Sherlock, button your coat!" the shorter boy tries to demand, though his shaking hinders him somewhat.

Sherlock dismisses him with a small wave and goes to unwrap the scarf around his neck. John is about to protest, but before he can the length of wool is being tied securely around his own throat. It's surprisingly warm, and the blond simply welcomes the heat. The dark-haired boy, in turn, buttons his coat and turns up his collar to the wind.

A light, mysterious musk wafts around him, and John inhales deeply. It's the scarf. It smells like chemicals, and adrenaline, and something oh-so-Sherlock that the blond boy can't place.

His fingers are freezing, and he doesn't hesitate to shove them in his pockets. Moriarty is walking thirty paces ahead of them, Sherlock deliberately walking slow enough to remain undetected, but fast enough to keep the man in sight. John sighs. This is going to be a long, cold night.

Suddenly, Moriarty stops in his tracks. John's eyes are instantly on Sherlock, who doesn't seem to react, simply gazes down at John and says, "Take my arm." He doesn't have to repeat himself; the blond instantly does as he's told. The taller boy places a warm, pale hand over his cold fingers. John marvels at how hot it feels compared to his, but doesn't question it.

"Just keep walking, act like there's a conversation going on," Sherlock whispers, and John knows Jim is suspicious. A jovial chuckle escapes his lips, and the blond begins to play his part.

_Acting_, it was _always_ acting. John swears he could do this professionally by now.

It seems to be working. Ahead of them, Moriarty turns back around and keeps walking. Sherlock doesn't remove his hand, so John doesn't release his arm. People will definitely talk, but then again people do little else. There's no one else on the street anyway.

John is just about to sigh in relief when Jim stops again. He half-turns his head over his shoulder and pretends to gaze into a shop window, but the two boys twenty yards down the sidewalk know he's watching their every move suspiciously.

Sherlock does something unexpected at this point. Still walking briskly forward, paying no attention to their target it seems, the dark-haired teen removes his hand from John's and tilts his chin upwards until they're eye-to-eye.

Sherlock is giving him that stare again. John feels his feet cement themselves to the ground. His companion stops beside him.

For a few (terrifying? overwhelming?) moments, their worlds seem to collide. John can't help but swallow harshly and lick his lips once, twice. Bright green/grey eyes track his tongue.

It happens so fast, John can't comprehend it, and suddenly his head is swimming. He becomes limp in his friend's arms and chokes back an embarrassing noise from escaping his throat. Sherlock's eyes are closed, brows furrowed. He closes his eyes too.

_It has to look real._

John hears footsteps down the sidewalk and cracks his eye. Jim is walking away, ears red from the cold. Or embarrassment. The blond doesn't know.

Sherlock pulls away slowly, almost reluctantly. John feels hot breath on his cheek, fast huffs, like the taller boy can't breathe.

* * *

For three days Sherlock seems more solemn than usual. John can't pinpoint the reason, and he often finds his friend staring at him when he thinks the blond isn't looking. The fourth day, John decides to confront him about it.

"So why are you so blue?" he asks eventually.

Sherlock sighs into his chemistry set. "My oxygen intake is fine, John. I'm not blue."

John chuckles. "No, I mean you seem sad."

The dark-haired boy doesn't respond. The shorter boy takes a moment to sit next to him. Sherlock looks over at him apprehensively, but he otherwise doesn't move. John sighs.

"Sherlock, ever since we got back from that case you've been different. You've been sad."

A shake of the head and Sherlock's biting his lip.

"It wasn't a case," Sherlock mutters under his breath, and suddenly it clicks together in John's head.

Sometimes everything _is_ exactly as it seems.

"Oh Sherlock," John is saying apologetically. He wraps his arms around the other boy's neck and all the tension melts away. "I'm so sorry, Sher…"

"Mhmm," the other boy murmurs, content with the current situation.

They've reached an understanding.

_They're no longer friends. _


End file.
